In The Stillness
by pgrabia
Summary: While on the road with House, a messenger guides Wilson in making a serious decision about the direction of his life. Set post-series, post-season 8. House/Wilson slash. Adult concepts NOT a death fic. Drama/Romance.


**Title:** **In The Stillness**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer**: House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Spoiler** **Alert**: This story involves spoilers for all seasons of House M.D. up to and including Season 8, Episode 22: Everybody Dies.

**Characters/pairings:** House, Wilson/ House/Wilson slash.

**Word Count: **~3000

**Rating**: **PG-13(T) **

**A/N:** Written for the **Sick!Wilson Halloween 2012 challenge** at the Sick!Wilson community on LJ.. Based in the same universe as my fics _Once Bitten_, _Celebration, All Choked Up, _and_ Beating the Odds_, from here forward known as the _Bitten_ 'verse

This is unbetaed, so I apologize for all the errors I missed after reading it through a couple of times.

**In The Stillness**

Wilson lay in the hotel bed, soothed by the weight of half of House's body on his, long arms wrapped possessively around him as the ex-diagnostician slept. They had made love for the first time earlier that evening, and then once more as soon as they both had been able, before falling off into sated sleep. Something had awakened Wilson in the wee hours of the morning, a sound of someone or something shuffling around in the room, or so he had thought. Upon opening his eyes he'd realized that he had to have dreamt it, because he and House were the only ones there.

He looked at the sleeping face of his new lover, or old lover, depending upon your criteria, Wilson supposed. He'd been in love with House for years, but he'd only had the courage to do anything about it that evening, now that he had absolutely nothing left to lose. They'd had a good night out at a fine restaurant in Boulder, Colorado, one of their many stops on Wilson's bucket list trip, his last adventure with House before the thymoma growing and spreading in his chest took his life. While both of them had had their share of wine over the course of the evening, neither of them had been drunk; they had certainly known exactly what they were doing when they had hurried back to their hotel room and had begun to tear the clothes off of each other in sexual frenzy. Years of pent up love and desire finally being freed between them.

In no way did Wilson regret their lovemaking, and from the way House was holding him in his sleep, he didn't think the older man regretted any of it, either. It had, however, reminded Wilson how short on time they were to enjoy this new intimacy that only added to, rather than eliminated, their friendship. He'd waited so long for this, and it had only come now that there were only a few months left in his life to enjoy it. Perhaps that was why it had happened in the first place—it had taken his impending death to get both he and House to focus on what was really important to them and to throw previous cautions, fears and expectations to the wind. It seemed odd for him to think that he had his cancer, which would eventually tear him away from House forever, to thank for finally having the only person he'd ever truly loved in his bed and his arms at that moment.

Wilson traced the line of House's angular face and square chin, prickly with unshaved whiskers, with his fingertips, the pressure he applied feather-light and gentle. He smiled at the way a muscle at the corner of House's mouth twitched when his index finger ghosted over it, and at the way House sighed in his sleep and seemed to tighten his hold on the younger man, if that was even possible. God, Wilson loved that wizened face, that thinning, greying hair that held just enough wave to keep it from ever lying obediently flat, that muscular upper body that had had to learn to compensate for the weakened right leg. Even more than that did Wilson love the mind in that head that rested on his chest, and that heart he could almost feel beating in House's chest. He loved House so much that it hurt—had hurt for a very long time. In his wildest dreams Wilson had never once died before House, yet here he was, doing just that.

He didn't want to die. He didn't want this to end. He didn't want to leave Gregory House now that the genius was finally his to have and hold. Life was a bitch, unfair to the end. All Wilson wanted was to be able to lie like this with his lover for decades of nights to come.

"You can, you know," a familiar voice said from the shadows in the darkened room. Disembodied, it came from the motionless air just inches from his left ear. He hadn't heard that voice for years, now; not since he'd made the mistake of taking up again with his first ex-wife (only to see that fail less than a year later and at the expense of the intimacy he'd gained with House after the older man had been discharged from Mayfield). The voice never surprised him, or caused him fear; indeed, it had been the music to which he'd fallen asleep for many months following her death.

"It's been a long time," he whispered nearly beneath his breath, not wanting to disturb House. "Where did you go?"

"I've always been here, James," Amber whispered to him, and only he, he knew, could hear her. "You just stopped listening."

For months after Amber's death, Wilson had believed himself mad for hearing her speak to him in the dead of the night, when he should have been sleeping but could not. Eventually he had given in to the madness and had allowed himself that one insane luxury of hearing her when he knew that it was impossible for him to really be doing so, because it had made her death that much easier to bear, and it had never caused anyone any harm. In his sane mind Wilson knew the voice was a fabrication of his own imagination but he had allowed himself to believe otherwise because he'd needed it to get through the mourning. Once Sam had reentered his life, Amber's voice had disappeared and Wilson had figured that was because he no longer needed her while he had Sam. Perhaps, he realized, he'd been wrong. Sam had merely distracted him from hearing Amber. But why had she come back now?

"You're not real," he reminded her.

"What is real, James?" she asked him. "Real is simply a construct to help us make sense of what is occurring around and about and in us. I'm as real as you want me to be…as you need me to be."

"You're just a figment of my imagination." Wilson spoke beneath his breath, unable to keep himself from smiling ruefully. "But I don't care. I missed you. So I guess you now know."

"About House, and you?" her voice responded, sounding as if Amber was seated right next to his bed and if Wilson were to turn his head to the side he'd be able to see her. He couldn't, of course, but she sounded that real, that close.

"Yes."

"Oh, James, I've always known."

"Are you angry?" he asked her hesitantly, afraid that House would be awakened by the sound of his whispering and think him mad.

"No," Amber replied. "James, you may not believe this, but actually, I'm glad you two have finally found what you've always needed in each other. I love you, and all I've ever wanted was for you to be happy."

"I am," Wilson assured her, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could see as well as hear her. "But that doesn't mean I wasn't happy with you. I loved you, Amber."

"I know."

Wilson was quiet for a few moments and so was she. He was the next one to speak, wondering if she was still there. "You said that I could continue to do this—be with House in this way—for many years to come. You're wrong. I'm dying, Amber. I know you know that. How can I keep this when I'll be dead in a matter of months?"

"The certainty of your death was established only when you decided not to pursue further treatment, James," Amber told him. "There's still time for you to change your mind, but not much."

"What if it doesn't work?" Wilson demanded, forgetting himself for only a moment and speaking out loud; he quickly lowered his voice again. "What if I go through all of the nausea and vomiting and pain and humiliation and the cancer still wins in the end?"

"You don't know for certain that it will," Amber's voice insisted. "Put yourself in House's place. If he were the one dying, wouldn't you want him to fight to live, to stay with you? If he refused to so much as try, wouldn't you begin to doubt that he really loves you as much as he says? Wouldn't you feel like you weren't important enough to him to fight for, even if you understood his reasoning? Would you want to keep living after he dies knowing you haven't even an identity left?"

Wilson thought about what she said and his conclusions frightened him.

"House is going to kill himself, isn't he—when I die?" he asked Amber.

Her lack of response startled him.

"Amber?" he cried out. "Are you still there? Amber?"

House stirred in bed beside him and reached out a hand blindly. It came to rest on his forearm. Wilson jumped then looked at him.

"Still dreaming about her?" House mumbled. "Or is she a succubus come to steal your soul?"

Wilson sighed, and smiled at him. "Just a dream," he answered, lying down again and snuggling up to his receptive partner. House wrapped an arm around him. "But it got me to thinking."

"Can it wait until morning?" House asked hopefully, knowing Wilson would want to talk about it. The younger man nodded, kissed House on the forehead.

"Good night, House. I love you."

"Mm…you too."

…

Wilson was up hours before House, having been too preoccupied with his conversation with Amber to sleep well after it. Real or not, Amber had made him realize how selfish he'd been behaving. House had suffered for over a decade with horrible pain and the complications thereof, yet he hadn't given up. And House had faked his own death to be there with Wilson for his last few months alive because he loved him. How could Wilson not feel guilty about wanting to avoid fighting to live for the man who had died for him—for _them_?

With that thought in mind, Wilson had grabbed the laptop and spent the early hours of the morning researching treatment options and centers around the country. One in particular interested him enough to write down the phone number with the intention of calling the clinic later to inquire about their research protocol and what hurdles he would have to jump to qualify.

Too restless to remain quiet and still while House slept, Wilson showered and dressed in the bathroom, wrote a quick note for House, leaving it on the nightstand next to his bottle of Vicodin, then slipped out of the room without waking his lover.

He headed for the 24 hour coffee shop half a block from the hotel where he waited for dawn to bring morning with it over a couple of cups of strong brew and a breakfast bagel. On his phone he continued his search of the Internet thanks to the coffee shop's free Wi-Fi. He lost track of time, and only looked up when he heard someone pull a chair out from the other side of his table. He quickly returned his phone to its home page, where it told him it was a quarter to seven, and set it down as House settled into the chair and hung his cane on the back of a spare one.

"You're up early."

House nodded in acknowledgement. "I rolled over and found you gone. Couldn't get back to sleep after that."

The lone waitress on duty came to their table to warm up Wilson's coffee and offered House a menu. He waved it off and ordered a coffee, orange juice, bacon and eggs with toast.

"Sorry about that," Wilson offered once the waitress was gone. He could tell by the look in House's eyes that the older man had suspected the worst, waking up and finding himself alone after their first night of lovemaking. "I left you a note."

"Thought you'd freaked out," House told him, still looking a little sleepy.

Wilson reached across the table and briefly rested his hand on top of House's. "I didn't. You?"

"Aside from being awakened in the middle of the night by your dreams and cheated out of morning nookie?" House asked. "I'm good."

"Good," Wilson replied with a silent sigh of relief and a small, reassuring smile; he chose to ignore the verbal jabs. "Tomorrow morning you won't be disappointed."

He could tell that House was fighting a smile, resulting in a smirk instead. He nodded at Wilson's phone. "Been texting someone?"

"Just browsing the Internet. Trying to decide where we should head next."

"I thought we were going to head for the coast," House said as the waitress returned with a cup of coffee for him. He opened a single packet of sugar and dumped into the cup, stirred it slowly.

"I've changed my mind," Wilson informed him, watching House fix his coffee before looking up to meet his blue-eyed gaze. "I'd like to cut through New Mexico and head for Arizona. I have an old friend in Scottsdale and they have some great golf courses I'd like to play. The climate will be good for your leg."

"If we're heading for desert I'd rather hit Vegas that Scottsdale," House said.

"We can go there after Arizona," Wilson assured him. "We can spend a couple of days in Scottsdale and then head for Nevada. I want to do some golfing. What do you say?"

House shrugged. "It's your last hurrah. Arizona it is."

Wilson smiled, taking House's hand again and squeezing it. "Thank you, House. I promise you, you won't regret it."

"Well, I can think of many ways in which you can make it up to me," House replied, a private, lascivious smile crossing his lips.

The waitress came soon after with House's meal. She warmed their coffees and then left them alone again. The coffee shop was beginning to get busier as other early risers found their way there.

"You still dream about CB?" House said through a mouthful of food.

Wilson cringed at House's lack of manners. "Sometimes. I can't help what I dream about."

"Are they good dreams or, more likely, nightmares?"

Wilson chose to ignore House's intended insult of his dead girlfriend, knowing he was just trying to get a rise out of him.

"They're hard to describe. Really, they're nothing important. You're not jealous, are you?"

"Not even I get jealous of dead women who pop up to frighten you in your sleep."

Wilson raised an eyebrow. "Who said it frightens me?"

"You sounded frightened last night when you were calling her name."

"Oh. Well, the dreams are usually of the two of us talking about what happened earlier in my day. Nothing exciting or frightening or anything for you to feel insecure about."

"I'm not insecure," House assured him with a roll of his eyes.

They finished up breakfast then returned to their hotel and packed up quickly; they were on the road before nine and rode for the better part of the day, stopping for the night at a small motel just off Interstate 25 close to some tiny little hamlet in New Mexico. The plan was to make it the rest of the way to Scottsdale the next day.

That night they made love twice before falling into contented sleep (though, when Wilson had used the phrase 'making love' House had turned up his nose and called him a girl). Sometime around 3 a.m. Wilson woke up for no particular reason. He was wrapped up in House's arms and couldn't move, but he could see where their feet ended at the end of their bed.

Amber, glowing a luminescent white, sat there with a smile on her face that was almost as brilliant as the light around her—an aura that failed to cast light on anything else in the room. Wilson's breath caught in his throat and it was at the last moment that he remembered House was sleeping and swallowed his startled cry. He'd heard her many times, but this was the first time he'd seen her.

"Amber?" he mouthed, his heart pounding quickly in his ears.

Was she a hallucination? Dream? Vision? He was certain that he was awake so…whatever she was she seemed pleased with him. With a nod of her head Amber blew him a kiss. He felt a cold puff of air on his cheek, which caused a shiver to run down his spine. He gasped softly, a free hand rising to touch his face. Then, as quickly as she had appeared, Amber disappeared into the stillness of the night.

Wilson lay awake for several minutes after that, wondering about what his seeing her meant; but one thing he did know: He'd made the right decision in seeking treatment. If she had been a dream or hallucination, it was his mind telling him that. If she had been something more than a trick of his mind, well, she obviously approved of his decision and meant neither he nor House any harm.

He shifted slightly in House's arms in order to kiss his prickly cheek. House flinched but otherwise went undisturbed. Smiling fondly, Wilson closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

_**~fin~**_


End file.
